World Without End

We shine with but a brief and borrowed light,

from orb to orb reflected  down the years,

a pale fire  filched, rekindled, and passed on.

So too that which our loins bequeath

already bear the seeds of their own spawn:

We sow, as we were sown.

Lord, but a boon:  again  threescore-and-ten

that I may seek anew what long I sought.

In time, I might grow wise.